Widening the Aisle
by kasugai gummie
Summary: [SanaTezuAtoFujiRyo] 'It wasn’t rocket science. Tezuka knew he was in hell.' ONESHOT


**Disclaimer**: Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi and Co.

**Warnings**: Crack, homosexual fivesome, attempt to write from Tezuka's third person point-of-view, possibility of being nonsensical until the very end (don't want to ruin it ;D).

**Notes**: Made it on time, but as those of the Extended Family I keyboard-mashed at can attest, this thing did NOT want to be written. In fact, I think I kind of lost my grasp on the brick's characterization somewhere at the 1500 mark and this being a 4000 word piece... Which isn't to say he's glaringly out-of-character, but he's not written to my satisfaction and how ever this thing reads, please be assured that I won't be offended if you find it unsatisfactory.

As for the style itself—I was basically trying (read: struggling) to incorporate a sense of "waver", some kind of disorientation in this piece, for a very good reason too that should make sense by the end. Therefore the fluctuations between Tezuka's third person and general third person are completely intentional and are supposed to be kind of perplexing.

**Dedications**: And thus, I, **kasugai gummie**, take **exwaiz **(**Wai**-Aki) and **Lady Androgene** as my wifeys, for the good of the Crack and the cracking of the good. I DO, AMEN, HALLELUJAH. LET'S GET BUSY ALREADY.

* * *

**Widening the Aisle  
**by kasugai gummie

* * *

There was no backdrop of broiling fires; no writhing transgressors suffering Inui's latest liquid biohazard; no rabid female paparazzi trying to shoot him with both camera and tranquilizer.

None of that.

However, in consideration of the situation at hand, he really didn't need much else to explain the gnawing sensation that was drilling ulcers into the lining of his stomach.

It wasn't rocket science. Tezuka knew he was in hell.

How he even got himself into this state, he could not remember (and if he did, he'd probably question the validity of whatever happened anyway), but that was the only logical conclusion he could possibly draw. All it took was a single glance _down_ and, when his gaze locked onto his arm as if it were a massive six-car-plus-a-semi pileup, Tezuka instinctively _knew_ that some unwitting idiot must have tinkered with the karma wheel (such as dashing his unforgivable-500 laps-deserving self onto said wheel and jamming up the gears). That he just couldn't tear his eyes away from the soft dusk of _La Valliere_ mauve encasing his limb only reinforced his new perception of cruel reality. In fact, upon closer inspection of the flamboyant brocade...

Were those stylized _rackets_ and _tennis balls_ embroidered on the hem! With _seed pearls_!

Tezuka didn't know who and-or what he had offended, whether it be in this or some previous life, but he _was_ sure that it didn't warrant this—this product of—

_Keigo_, the small part of his remaining rationale supplemented helpfully when the rest of his brain refused to respond to the virus-like desperation. The color, the design, even the _fabric_—everything had his dramatic lover's handiwork and seal of approval stamped all over.

Tezuka inhaled slowly and forcibly closed his eyes in order to stop burning his arm into his retinas. The feeling of disorientation was waxing and waning in continual influxes and he was pretty certain that the inability to focus properly wouldn't be disappearing anytime soon either. He exhaled. One thing at a time now...

Opening his eyes with extreme caution, the unfortunate young man who'd found himself in an off-colored, formal ensemble finally took stock of his surroundings. Plush red carpeting (as opposed to maroon or royal purple); gilded double doors at the far east-end of the hallway (instead of in the middle); mirrors mounted evenly with five meters spaced in between each. Tezuka fingered his glasses as his eyes alighted on the massive portrait of one dark haired narcissist on the far west-end of the hallway. If memory served him correctly, then this lavish hallway was the east wing-third floor of Atobe's summer residence.

Dismissing the momentary feeling of unease that came with the lack of control, Tezuka turned towards the end with the doors and started walking forward. He tried his best not to look himself in the mirror. Mirrors. Right, more than one and therefore all the more dangerous.

When he neared the double doors, he paused. Instinct told him that he did Not Want To Go In There. And usually he listened to his instinct because it saved him from whatever horrible thing might befall on someone less aware, however... despite his best intentions not to, Tezuka found himself unable to stop his left hand (traitorous limb that it was) from pushing open the door.

"—suke, stop groping the brat and come here. And where are... hasn't Genichirou found Kunimitsu _yet_?"

Tezuka calmly ignored the urgent voice coming from the back of his mind that sounded very much like himself and continued to push the door wider.

"One of them is probably lost again. You know how your house likes to eat uptight people, Keigo. I mean, take that one time you invited over that color-blind wedding planner—"

A resigned sigh with Atobe's signature husk interwoven into the inflections crept through the partially ajar door. "Mizuki. His name is Mizuki, Syuusuke, and I thought we all agreed on how his taste in decor and threads is impeccable many times before despite your inherent dislike—" the irritated explanation cut itself short. "—why are you trying to give Ore-sama a massage when your skills are seriously lacking, brat? Other than to lay your hands on my awe-inspiring self of course."

Taking into consideration the supposed distance between him and three of his four lovers, the little sighs and under-the-breath mutters could be heard with abnormal clarity. Such as the wry huff that was so very characteristic of Echizen when he was faced with a very argument against something large and hard to reason with—in this case the infamous Atobe ego.

"Che. Retract that ego and relax a bit, would you? You're going to ruin your complexion if you keep stressing over like this."

A slight furrow appeared between the thin lenses as disorientation came knocking on Tezuka's brow again. First, when did they ever sit down and discuss the fashion credentials of one Fuji Yuuta's boyfriend? And since when did anybody but Atobe pay even the barest attention to dermatology? He had no choice _but_ to study the human body since he was a medical student whereas the rest of his lovers went about their merry ways and left him to his often-explicit studies. Therefore, to hear Echizen, who always fell asleep disinterested whenever he asked the others their opinions on certain subjects, reference a fact from his previous project presentation which he was certain the younger man cruised right through...

"Excuse me? Ore-sama has _never_ had a problem with the disadvantages an average adolescent has to experience and it is insulting to hear such from _you_ in particular, _Echizen_—"

"Ryoma has a point though, you know. I mean, this mark wasn't here before was it Keigo-dear?"

"... Syuusuke, _you_ put that there last night."

Tezuka stopped moving forward and frowned hard, as if something just didn't quite agree with what he was hearing. Last night... wasn't Echizen the one who was rather enthusiastic with his mouth and any patch of skin he came in contact with? He reached a hand over to his right shoulder absently: he'd check to make sure, but that would mean having to go to a mirror and seeing the _entire_ suit in all its embroidered glory.

Absently, Tezuka noted how the speed at which he was gaining entrance to his arrogant lover's suites was _abnormally slow_, as if he were in the climax of a dramatic film scene where slow-motion was key, and that there was _nothing_ he could do to force his muscles to move faster. Yet, all Tezuka did was shrug it off and continue easing open the stubborn slab of wood. Before the door to the bedchamber swung completely open however, even footsteps from behind alerted him to another's presence.

"I was looking for you in the west wing when you were here all along," Tezuka glanced over his shoulder to see Sanada—oh god, Mizuki Hajime's lack of dress sense was viral—come towards him. "Got lost for no reason now, did I?"

"Sorry," Tezuka offered, unable to say much else given the state of his increasingly addled mind. Now he could only focus on Sanada's features, the sharp hawk-like eyes that watched him with faint worry. "I think I got lost myself." Was everything this hazy and, at the same time, sharply focused before? The twice former captain of the Seishun tennis scene squinted at nothing in particular and turned away when Sanada looked about to pose some question he didn't necessarily want to answer.

"Let's go see what's bothering Keigo," Tezuka murmured instead and entered Atobe's private chambers with an apprehensive Sanada (wearing a vaguely suspicious expression) in tow.

It was like walking under a magnifying glass with only a think sheet of tissue between the lenses and the light source. The immediate silence that followed his and Sanada's entrance was ominous, amused, and expectant. Tezuka more or less succeeded in avoiding eye-contact with Atobe who was glowering for all he was worth and magically pulling off the look even while bedecked in a much more ruffled version of what Tezuka himself was wearing.

Sitting down with Sanada on the foot of the specially designed five-person bed, Tezuka found himself under close scrutiny. From where he was standing behind seated by the ornate vanity, Fuji offered him an enigmatic smile. "Where were you?" came the mild question, punctuated by Atobe's impatient scowl and Ryoma's seemingly uncaring but very attentive expression.

When Tezuka didn't offer any answer besides an unhurried blink which seemed to translate in Atobe's mind as something unforgivable, the affluent young man got up in one smooth motion. Stalking over to a much confused Tezuka, Atobe began to speak in low, dulcet tones.

"We've been waiting for you and Genichirou, who volunteered to try and find you, so that we can go over the ceremony requirements one more time before we go."

Wait. Ceremony?

"This wedding is being broadcasted, eight hours from now, so Ore-sama will be damned if everything isn't perfect."

Something didn't quite click with Tezuka's brain and the inability to make sense of what was resounding within the hollow of his skull disturbed him greatly. He must've shown _something_ that agreed with Atobe however, since he was drawing away with a more mollified cant to his expression.

His brain finally managed to process the ceremony concept by the time Atobe walked back to his armchair, only to find that his previously evacuated position had been taken over by Fuji who had somehow coerced Echizen into his lap. The idea of wedding on the other hand...

"Why couldn't we have a nice traditional Japanese wedding again?" Sanada muttered, plucking at the crisp white of his shirt collar restlessly and looking quite resigned overall.

Atobe didn't quite roll his eyes—he sniffed with an off-to-the-side glance—but the effect was the same. "Because all the Buddhist and Shinto priests unanimously declared a period of solitude preceding our appointed day before we could get our hands on them." He flicked a stray forelock as he reminisced. "Besides, it would have been difficult to compromise our specific preferences with the traditional style of dress."

"But isn't Ryoma's father a monk?" Fuji pointed out helpfully when it seemed like Sanada was going to readily defend said tradition style of dress. He trailed a steady finger along said tennis genius' neck in a silent prompt to answer.

Tezuka wanted to tell his lovers to stop, and persuade them to explain _why_ they were getting married in the first place without having, to his knowledge, ever discussed this fully. Discussed this fully with him, at least. And this apparent chasm in communication was nothing if not detrimental.

Not only did he disapprove of this arguably shotgun wedding, but also his lack of any working knowledge of _what was going on_. Even Sanada seemed abnormally compliant with the proceedings. Maybe he still could talk some sense into his lovers in the—was it eight hours?—time remaining and encourage them to rethink things over.

Unfortunately, however, Tezuka found himself being effectively distracted from that particular train of thought by the engrossing play of muscles under Echizen's skin as the younger man stiffened under Fuji's ministrations and suggestion.

"The old man's unqualified and illegitimate," snapped Echizen in answer, shooting a displeased look at the feigned innocence in Fuji's smile.

"That's true," Fuji conceded in his elusive, round-about-way of apologizing. "Besides, it's much more fun with an extravagant number of witnesses composed of both similarly dressed families and friends. Which reminds me," he said, peering over Echizen's shoulder to address Atobe who'd settled with lounging in a backup armchair between them and the bed, "Neesan somehow managed to reschedule the last of her appointments yesterday, so she'll definitely be our Maid of Honor."

"Even the brat managed to persuade his cousin and mother to becoming bridesmaids on time. Procrastinate much, Syuusuke?" Atobe drawled with a disbelieving eyebrow raised.

Fuji laughed into Ryoma's shoulder. "Only as much as Genichirou, it would seem."

Tezuka looked over to Sanada who he decided looked almost as uncomfortable as he himself felt.

"Who's giving away us away again, Genichirou?" Echizen asked, batting away stray the stray hands that sought to un-tuck the ruffled shirt beneath his vest. "Stop that Syuusuke," he muttered before turning back to Sanada. "Weren't your parents in denial after we first sent out invitations last month to begin with?"

"Yes," came the surly grunt to Tezuka's right. "That's why I told Keigo to go find Yukimura instead."

All eyes turned to Atobe who smirked, despite himself. "And Ore-sama did. And not only did I find your former captain, but also that ill-mannered hell spawn of yours who volunteered when I sent representatives out just last week. Unexpectedly however, before any agreement was reached, the Sanada patriarch—"

Tezuka could feel his eyes widen at what he was hearing. Beside him, the Rikkaidai-graduate had half risen from the dark comforter with a strangled questioning "grandfather?"

"—had flagged down one of my agents and made reservations to that right." Atobe's smirk grew wider. "What, your old team members didn't tell you? Long story short, Yukimura decided it would be best if we compromised: Kirihara Akaya will be wheeling your grandfather up the dais to collectively give us away."

Tezuka winced, feeling uncharacteristically helpless as the conversation tread paths where he simply did not want to go, yet were places he was unable to refuse. He found himself staring at the embellished jacket sleeve instead, half-listening to the oddities flying around him and trying to sort things out within the privacy of his mind.

"So that just leaves our Best Man, Ring bearer and Flower Girl?" Fuji checked off. "As of yesterday, the candidates for Best Man had dwindled down from Momoshirou, Kaidoh, and Kabaji to only Kaidoh and Kabaji." The fair-haired man nodded appreciatively to Sanada who rubbed at his forehead with the heel of one hand. "I never thought that Genichirou would be the one to help reduce the remaining competition by suggesting they draw straws."

"Kunimitsu's former teammates were rather obnoxious. Annoyingly so."

Tezuka blinked up when he felt Sanada's mildly accusing gaze on his head. "Momoshirou and Kaidoh have very competitive streaks," he murmured absently, looking at anywhere but the spaces occupied by _La Valliere_ mauve.

Atobe waved it away. "Regardless, it's been decided that Kabaji is our Best Man and Momoshirou the Flower... person."

"How in the world did you persuade Momo-senpai to hold a girly basket and and toss around girly things in a girly way, Monkey King?" asked Echizen, echoing Tezuka's unvoiced incredulity for him.

"Jan Ken Pon," said Atobe with an entirely all-too-pleased smile on his lips. "Best two out of three. Whoever lost would assume the Flower Girl duties and be dressed as befitting a floral carrier. Whoever knew Momoshirou was so... lacking in Jan Ken Pon sense?" He turned his attention back to Tezuka who was still trying to process the flurry of information coming his way. "Now, since finding a Ring Bearer was your duty Kunimitsu..."

He had a duty? Eyes flickered between the other four men behind not-quite concealing lenses. When? Why! The panic that developed curled to the bottom of his stomach like Karupin after breaking into too much catnip, heavy and immobile.

"You _did_ remember, right?"

Silence. Tezuka opened his mouth to defend himself but found, for the second time since discovering his part in this travesty,that his vocal chords simply refused to cooperate.

Atobe leaned back with an odd glint in his eyes, one that was mirrored in the other three's as well. And Tezuka would have noticed too, had he not closed his eyes in a failed attempt to ward off the incoming headache.

"Really now, Kunimitsu. I thought that we'd done a magnificent job of ridding your last anxieties for you."

Tezuka cast a look of bewilderment (one that he hoped to be well-masked) when Sanada muttered, "I even bottomed that night," under his breath.

"I... apologize," Tezuka offered lamely, but with as much sincerity as he could allow himself. "You know how busy Medical School is." Or at least he hoped they did.

"Hmm, it's been a long time since I've last heard _Buchou_ apologize, right Syuusuke?" Echizen eyed Tezuka appraisingly and Tezuka stared back, though for completely different reasons. The last time Echizen had ever called him by that title was six years ago, when Echizen was sixteen and he himself was in his last year of high school. So why the sudden lapse?

"Has it really been that long?"

Sanada nodded from the side. "It's certainly the first time I've heard him so..."

"Unauthoritative?" Atobe supplied with a leer.

An answering smile touched Sanada's lips (much to Tezuka's unspoken horror). "Something like that," his ex-compatriot acceded, with what Tezuka hoped wasn't a wink. "But what are we going to do about the missing link?"

Unable to respond effectively to the Voice of Self-Preservation which was urgently advising him to throw dignity to the wolves and escape while he still can, Tezuka watched, stock-still, as Atobe sat back completely. "We shall do nothing because, despite Kunimitsu's lapse in better judgment, I was suspecting that something like this would occur. Ore-sama had already planned ahead and hired Elijah Wood."

Fuji clapped his hands in delight. "You did? How thoughtful of you, Keigo-darling, I love his movies!"

Atobe smirked magnanimously before pinioning Tezuka to the bed with a suggestive, smoldering look. "Not even married and already in domestic debt, naa Kunimitsu?" he drawled.

Tezuka managed to look unimpressed, though that particularly insistent Voice in the back of his mind had upgraded the alert decibels from a mere "Urgent" to "BIOHAZARD-RETREAT OR DO SOMETHING USEFUL DAMMIT." The disorientation, what he attributed to that gods-be-damned unfamiliar sense of helplessness coupled with a more familiar feeling of resignation, was more than his will could stand against it would seem, and the last thing Tezuka knew was what he, proud (yet no longer "proper") son of a distinguished family, had opened his mouth, and uttered words he'd never intended to be transformed into sound waves.

"Behave, Keigo. Weren't you going to review the ceremony?"

Given any other situation, Tezuka would have been satisfied with the taken-back expression that circulated itself around the room and concentrated itself in Atobe's arched brow of surprise. But unfortunately, he was rather preoccupied with bidding the last vestiges of his sanity goodbye to truly appreciate the moment.

Not that his other lovers deigned to notice however.

"One thing at a time, Kunimitsu," Atobe all but purred. "Alright, according to the program that we managed to persuade the officiator to agree to—"

"I still can't believe you threatened to dismantle the church with an _armored vehicle_ which this _demilitarized_ country isn't even supposed to be in _possession of_."

Tezuka shut his eyes and count to ten.

"Quiet, brat," Atobe reproved before continuing airily. "According to the program, when we enter the entrance of the hall, and our Flower Boy shall precede us by no more, no less than ten steps. When the music cues—"

"Surely not 'Here Comes the Bride'?" Fuji inquired.

Reaching ten, Tezuka began to count backwards.

"Mizuki chose the replacement music. I'm sure whatever he chose will be appropriate and significant, and you can stop trying to drill holes into my glorious backside Syuusuke. Anyway, we shall wait three beats before allowing Momoshirou to attend to his duties, and then another ten before we march to the dais where Genichirou's grandfather shall receive us. Ore-sama believes that this is quite simple to accomplish, yes?"

The small frown that had become a permanent fixation on Tezuka's lips deepened: something didn't quite agree with what remained of his logic and, against his better judgment, Tezuka voiced his concerns. "We all troupe down together, side-by-side?"

Atobe sighed impatiently. "Yes. We agreed that this way is the most logical and fair method to approaching the beginning of this marriage just last week, if you'll recall.."

The thing was Tezuka very well _didn't_ recall. But he plowed on anyway.

"I think we're missing a very important point here though."

Four sets of curious gazes narrowed in on the gravity in pronouncement.

"Will the aisle be wide enough?"

"Well, shit," swore Sanada when it seemed as if no one else was going to be forthcoming with their thoughts. "Now that I think about it, I don't think the church we reserved has aisles wide enough for four people, much less five, to begin with."

"If we can't all walk down the aisle as equals, then the only other way is for one of us…"

All eyes, even including Tezuka's, looked to the youngest member of the group.

Echizen narrowed his eyes dangerously, picking up immediately on Fuji's unfinished train of thought. "Just because I'm bottoming to you hormonal lot _this month_,"—the eyes narrowed into warning slits—"doesn't mean I'm going to play the fucking GIRL for the wedding."

Tezuka pinched the bridge of his nose.

"If anybody has to walk down that aisle alone, then it should be Kunimitsu."

Tezuka froze in mid-pinch.

"The honeymoon coincides with his turn after all."

Atobe smirked in approval at his self-appointed protégé before addressing his other three lovers with a lofty toss of his head. "Then it's all agreed? If we can't all walk down at the same time, then Kunimitsu gets to be the so-called bride? Especially since he failed to fulfill his duties."

"Agreed," intoned Fuji and Ryoma in unison, the former piously and the latter smug. Sanada merely nodded with a wry, but completely unrepentant quirk of the mouth.

"Very well then, majority rules," Atobe announced, pulling out a (where the _hell_ did he get that from!) sheer, lace veil with miniature glass tennis balls hemming the edges. "Congratulations, Kunimitsu—since Ore-sama is almost positive that the aisles are just short of being wide enough, you get to be the bride. You must thank Syuusuke properly on our honeymoon for suggesting I prepare this just in case. This works out very nicely you know; Ore-sama will inform Mizuki to change the cue back to "Here Comes the Bride" and the Sanada Patriarch will only be responsible of giving away one person. Now—" Atobe advanced, veil held up and loosely in both hands.

Tezuka was trapped, and not just by the panic usually felt by deer caught in headlights. Arms, legs, and familiar but momentarily _unwelcome_ weights pressed against all sides (where the _hell_ did they come from!), immobilizing him within that eye-bleeding suit of _La Valliere_ mauve and warm bodies.

"—stay still—"

* * *

Panicked eyes flew open and Tezuka breathed in sharply. Nabbing his glasses from their special perch in a secure concave in the headboard he looked about quickly, mind registering sensations far more slowly than he would have liked.

Bare skin against bare skin—the questionable lavender-grey was nowhere in sight or touch. He had been asleep? Tezuka looked about himself again, but with more care this second time around. Above him, the fabric canopy was but a colorless expanse and the tangle of (thankfully naked and not bedecked in formal wear) bodies around, under, on top of him were the only definable shapes in the pitch black that was what he assumed to be the wee hours of morning.

Gently extricating himself from the limbs that had been draped across his chest (Fuji and Ryoma), entwined with his own leg (Atobe), curled around his waist (Sanada), Tezuka sat up on the edge of the massive bed. His heart rate was still slightly fast, but slowly returning to normal and he continued to just savor the hush of multiple breaths and solitude.

That had been... harrowing, he decided as he stared into the darkness. Rolling stiff neck muscles, he sighed. For a dream, and an arguably bad one at that, it had been disturbingly realistic. He wanted to know why.

It wasn't until maybe another five minutes of stewing in his own scrambled thoughts that Tezuka finally shifted back slightly and encountered the chill plastic of a magazine cover. Blinking at the unexpected sensation, he noted the hand in which it was loosely held (Fuji's) and peered at the shadowed cover.

If he could just catch the embossed lettering with the trickle of light coming from the crack in the curtains…

_Modern Bride Magazine_.

Tezuka felt a twitch develop in the crick of his neck as his blood congealed.

* * *

The next morning, when Fuji discovered the magazine his sister had sent him as a practical joke gone, in addition to an incomplete orgy in their bed, Tezuka's lovers went searching for him only to find him dozing fitfully on the couch.

When they tried to coax him back to their collective bed, the former captain of Seigaku refused, politely but firmly.

"We need to resolve our miscommunications first. And then we'll talk."

As they were ushered out of the guest room, Fuji made a mental note to keep the fifteen odd copies of _Pregnancy and Childbirth _hidden after they'd manage to convince Tezuka to rejoin them.

* * *

**Fin  
**Completed: 01/01/06

* * *

**Mental note so self**: Never write dream sequences EVER AGAIN. Or at least not by using the oddities and system quirks of my own dream-formats as a reference point. :P


End file.
